The Infamy
by chickenscrews
Summary: A team of young heroes trained and commanded by Batman and Superman wage a secret war against the mastermind Slade as he garners an army to destroy all who stand in the way of his conquest—but when a world that hates vigilantes and meta-humans learns of their existence and takes arms against them, is there anything awaiting the two warring sides beyond a ruinous downfall? AU


The imagery of the opening rooftop scene was shamelessly stolen without permission from an awesome piece on deviantArt called "On a Stakeout" by the brilliant artist Harseik. Go forth and view it, for it is awesome.

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_**The Infamy**_

_**Prelude: Through the Glass**_

"How long do you think we have?" young Superman asked his friend melancholically as they kept a vigil eye on their stakeout atop the Metropolis building. The sun was setting behind them, turning the sky into a pallet of oranges and pinks.

Batman raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" The Caped Crusader took another bite of his French toast stick as he sat beside the Man of Steel on the edge of the building. At nineteen, both were still first-year college students relatively new to the hero business. They were fortunate enough to find each other so early in their careers and, after a few adventures together, had become fast friends.

Clark was too distracted to take another bite of his burrito. "Our enemies are getting stronger, Bruce. The day will come when we're finally confronted by someone too powerful for just the two of us to handle, and when that happens, what then?"

"We put something in the want ads." Bruce joked wryly as he set aside the French toast stick to take a drink from his soda.

"I'm being serious, Bruce. Last time, we barely made it out alive. If we were just a second slower—if Luthor didn't have a change of heart—this whole planet and all its beautiful creatures would be crushed under Zod's foot right now, and us with it. We can't keep pretending we're invincible. Not after that."

Young Bruce narrowed his eyes solemnly. "We never were, Clark. We're only men."

**Thirteen years later…**

A carnal, murderous roar. A phantasmagoric exchange of devastating, inhuman blows. Flesh and bone severed and crushed underfoot. Blood dripping from the howling beast's mouth. A warrior crying for his brother's aid. A final, desperate attack and a blood-curdling howl.

And then all was silence.

A shallow breath. A soft, broken gasp. A quiet, pained grunt. And yet, his body could not move as he sat there, leaning against the metal wall in the darkened room. He could barely _feel_. Perhaps it was the blood spilling out from his missing leg—bone and flesh ripped apart without even the slightest effort—or how severely hollowed his chest was from the beating he took that impaired cardiac and respiratory function that slowed the flow of blood to his brain. He was growing cold, shivering, and knew the end was upon him.

The only assurance that he hadn't yet passed on was the weight of his best friend lying broken against him and held under his arm. From beneath the cowl, Bruce's waning sight could discern the black hair matted with blood, the bruised and blackened features of the hero's face, and the two bloody pools where the Man of Steel's eyes were gouged out, his head leaning almost lifelessly on the Dark Knight's shoulder. In the cold, industrial hull of the downed ship, where the aquatic reflection of the ocean floor danced across the darkened room through the expansive window and illuminated the corpse of the monster they slew, Bruce weakly shook his friend, hoping for a response—not yet ready to face the great abyss alone.

"Clark…are you still with me?"

Some seconds of silence, and then mankind's savior choked forth what few words he could muster on his deathbed. "Bruce…did we get him? …Are you okay?" Why would he ask that of his friend's wellbeing? He could hear his failing heartbeat and knew full well this was the end. Was he growing senile in his last moments? Or was he merely looking for a beautiful lie, to be told that his sacrifice was worth something?

"Yeah…we got him. That's all that matters."

"What about the kids?"

He wanted to lie, to grant his dearest friend a peaceful rest, but he respected him far too much to go through with it. It was no small contribution that they knew each other well enough to see through their façades and lies, and so Bruce told him the least painful iteration of the truth he could.

"I don't know. I really don't."

Superman allowed a small grin amid the blood pouring down his face. "They'll be alright…they learned from the best."

Some other pang shot through the Man of Steel's dying body and he gasped audibly. Batman quickly pulled him closer in his embrace, giving the departing warrior whatever last comfort he could. He choked and coughed blood on the Dark Knight's shoulder and cape and further spasms followed suit, each growing in intensity until Superman finally calmed himself enough for a few last, ragged words in the midst of the agony.

"I—I can still feel him, Bruce! He's still there—!" Another violent wheeze and his friend tried to hold him still in the one-armed hug, his hand gripping the side of Clark's head for added stability. Batman's eyes narrowed in sorrow. As he looked beyond the glass window to see the monstrous form on the other side, a replica of the very demon his friend spoke of that imposed itself on the reflection of the ocean that permeated the dead room—a near-perfect imitation of the same beast they slew—Batman could feel Kryptonian blood spilling against his sides. "He—mustn't hurt them, Bruce! He can't—the students—!"

One final convulsion, one last gasp of air and Superman's husk slumped lifelessly in his old friend's embrace. Bruce felt the moment a god passed into the great beyond and the force of it was enough to bring the war-weary crusader to tears. Dying though he was, Bruce grit his teeth and glared at the monster on the other side of the glass, yet Doomsday remained uncharacteristically in repose, looking him dead in the eye but showing no visible will to shatter the portal separating hull from ocean and beat what life remained out of Bruce unless the currents swept away and suffocated him first, and it was the ambiguity of how his last moments would play out that resonated more bitterly than a quick, certain death.

Doomsday slowly turned away and marched alongside the vast window until he vanished from sight, the reverberations of each thunderous footstep enough to keep Bruce's petrified heart beating long after the monster was gone. He was shivering again, gasping. Eternity's embrace was upon him and Bruce knew he couldn't hold it off any longer. And so, with some last cusps of strength, he reached his free hand into his utility belt and produced his communicator, flipping it open and navigating the menu with his thumb to find what he was looking for.

And there it was.

He smiled with what energy he could at the image onscreen: a lineup of diverse young heroes in uniform posed for a group photograph. Officially nonexistent though they were meant to be, they'd bonded as an unlikely family of misfits and outcasts who'd found a home in each others' company. They called themselves "The Titans."

_My students…my children…_

A slow, distant sequence of sounds, muffled by the water and the window, reawakened the Dark Knight's dread and he wearily turned back to the glass portal and faintly discerned a shape moving across the ocean floor—_walking_ across it. The shape, distorted by murky water and Bruce's own failing eyesight, was joined by others much like it and their combined footsteps shook the sunken vessel. A sudden jolt of the ship—briefly rocking Bruce and dislodging a pipe in the wall that unleashed a concentrated torrent of water overrunning the Man of Steel's head and upper torso, forcefully washing away the corpse's blood in a perpetual current—and Bruce knew one or more of the creatures were atop the ship. How else could it have rocked so suddenly?

Several more colossal jolts and heavy footsteps and the reverberations rocked the sunken vessel to the point where the cabin repeatedly shook violently, causing Bruce and Clark's husk to be slung separately across the dead room, the greater part of the machinery and composition of the structure collapsing and the glass window cracking. The wall Bruce formerly leaned against was broken apart by a great surge of ocean water built up from the room behind it and the brief wave thrust him across the flooded hull and the ceiling finally gave in and fell atop him. If only it had killed him on the spot, he might have been spared a far more miserable death. His back against the submerged floor and the rubble atop him, Bruce groaned in agony as he tried to keep his head above water, though his severed leg was unresponsive and the blood swelled out of it uncontrollably, pooling around the demolished remains of his knee.

Now the coldness was unbearable and he was growing pale. But he needed it—needed to see the faces of his children just once more before he left for the silent darkness or the other shore—whatever awaited him after death. And there he saw his communicator, washed up some feet away beside the Doomsday corpse he and Clark slew, a grotesque cavity where its heart once rested. He reached for the device, yet it was still miserably beyond his grasp so long as he was trapped beneath the wreckage. And it was as he sought the communicator that he finally got a good enough look at the type of wraiths traveling by; on the other side of the now nearly shattered glass walked past yet another colossal beast of monstrous complexion, bone and marrow tearing through its otherwise impenetrable flesh and soul-piercing eyes of hellfire—Doomsday. Dozens—_hundreds_ of him—clones of both imperfect and superior design; some of a far larger build and others much smaller; some less protected by bone protrusions of varying length and others covered head to toe in it; some with the standard two eyes and others with more or less; mutants and mutations of all sorts embellishing the ghoulish army of bloodthirsty abominations.

_And they're heading for land._

Bruce unleashed an imperiled groan at the thought and used all the strength left in his arms and one remaining leg in a desperate attempt to lift what heavy wreckage of that sizeable pile he could off of him just so he could slide mere inches closer to his destination. The pile of unbalanced wreckage creaked and groaned at the indelicate shift all the while Batman suffered beneath, partially submerged with water levels rising, blood rapidly escaping, and body temperature steadily dropping. And when he felt he'd raised the insurmountable pile of wreckage enough and scooted what few inches he could, he reached for the communicator with renewed vigor, warding off the late embrace of death for as long as willpower could allow, the image of his students still open on the device.

_I have to warn them! More are coming—!_

Another series of high-impact jolts from the creatures disrupting the ship and further tons of wreckage from higher levels came crashing down upon Bruce, crushing and burying him as the severely cracked glass window finally exploded from the pressure and the bottom of the ocean quickly swallowed the cabin and all in it. In his final moments, Bruce watched his last hope of saving his precious students carried far away by the ocean current. The communicator—the image of those students, the Titans—was swept chaotically away until it finally came to rest on the sandy floor, amid the advancing monsters and was crushed underfoot into nothingness.

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Questions? Comments? Threats? Regrets? Requests? I'm all ears.


End file.
